Introspect
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock has formed the habit of waiting for Molly to finish her late shifts at Bart's. On one of these evenings, Sherlock reviews a memory and contemplates the present, all while waiting for the very person who sits at the centre of his thoughts.


_**A/N:** The title of this post is exactly what happened. I was supposed to work on The Admirer, but got distracted by the cool weather and the idea of Sherlock thinking incessantly about Molly. Throw in the contemplative spirit of Christmas and here we are, this random one-shot. It might be crazy, it might be fluffy, it might be just plain weird. Who knows? Thank you everyone, for all your unending love and support for The Admirer and all my other Sherlolly (and even Whouffaldi!) one-shots. Each one of you makes my day with your kind reviews and for your support in the face of difficulty and negativity. Bless all of you. xx _

**p.s.** A quick hello and thank you to Arcoiris who has just been relentlessly kind to me and reading all my past works and leaving such thoughtful and engaging reviews. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stories. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is the only way I can communicate with Arcoiris haha. So thank you everyone for letting me do so. xx

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**Introspect**

He had observed it once on the street. It surprised him that he had even committed it to memory. There had been a young man and a young lady, walking side by side. They seemed like magnets, where it was obvious there was an attraction, some sort of chemistry, but a layer of shyness or apprehension had caused that little force field of repulsion to occur between them. Their arms, neatly tucked to their sides, seemed to want to draw near to the other, but each time, they bounced away. Sometimes she would smile, or he would laugh shyly, but they kept on walking, their eyes taking turns to take stolen glances at the other.

Their chatter had been scattered, she would mention a little something and he would respond, and vice versa. Their conversation, from what Sherlock could lip read, bobbed like gentle waves, rising and falling calmly. A long pause had ensued as they carried on their walk, each tugging at their coats and scarves from the biting December chill.

_You okay_? Sherlock had seen the man ask.  
_Yeah, just a bit cold_, she had responded, with a nervous little laugh.

It was then that their magnetic poles finally seemed to reverse. The force field that caused them to bounce away from each other appeared to have physically broken. The young man swept in, right beside her, instantly wrapping an arm around her. He gently rubbed the side of her arm with his gloved hand, leaning in to speak to her. His lips, by then, had been obscured, so Sherlock could not see what he had said. When the young man lifted his head again, Sherlock could see the young woman smile, with a little more pink in her cheeks. Soon after, she looped her arm in his and leaned against his arm as they walked, with no more gap between them. By then, the couple's route had diverged from Sherlock's, and he never saw them again.

It was not odd, therefore, that this memory should come to him now, at this very point in time. He found himself waiting, as he had been for the past few months, for Molly to be done with her night shifts. Sherlock could not remember how he had begun this routine. It might have been since the Moriarty scare, what had been touted as the criminal mastermind's 'second coming'. That case had long since closed but the detective found himself at Bart's, faithfully waiting for Molly.

His waiting areas varied. Sometimes he would wait while she worked, which was another way of saying he worked alongside her, peering into her case files or commenting on the cadaver of the day. Needless to say, she often chased him out and he was not allowed to 'wait inside' with her anymore. This evening, he stood outside the hospital, absentmindedly braving the chill as he rummaged through his thoughts.

He thought about what Molly would possibly like to eat that evening. Sherlock knew she was always starving after these midnight morgue runs. There were several options, the Chinese place they both frequented, re-heating Baker Street leftovers from Mrs Hudson's fridge, or cooking at Molly's. His mind then did a complete U-turn as he wondered what Molly might be doing the next day. It was close to Christmas and he knew she had taken a few days off. _Christmas shopping and the like_, she had explained to him. He was almost tempted to join her, particularly when she had mentioned making a trip to Hamley's, but the thought of the crowds dissuaded him. Had she been disappointed? That he did not seem interested to join her at Hamley's? Sherlock had wondered. Perhaps they could come to a compromise, he would wait for her outside Hamley's, just like he was waiting now. He would help carry her shopping, if there was going to be lots, and perhaps take her somewhere nice for dinner.

Yes, dinner, he was back to thinking about dinner again. He did a quick calculation of all the dinner choices they had made in the last month, to see if he could generate her choice for this evening. They had been to that Chinese place far too many times. Even _he_ was sick of the sight of his favourite fried noodles. She would be tired, but he was feeling all right, for he had not had a busy day. Sherlock nodded to himself and decided he was going to cook tonight.

"You okay?"

Her voice had cut into his thoughts, interrupting him with a start. She was suddenly standing right before him, with her bag in hand and her thick scarf wound several times around her neck.

Sherlock studied her, the corner of his lip lifting slightly. Here she was, Molly Hooper, fresh from the morgue and ready for a hot bath, dinner and a good sleep. She exhaled sharply from the cold and shuffled slightly to stave off the biting wind. She was tired, but her eyes still shone brightly and she seemed genuinely happy to see him. There was still a smile on her lips, despite her obvious discomfort from the cold.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, finally, "Are you?"

Molly smiled at his answer, and gave her arms a quick rub.

"Yeah, just a bit cold." she replied.

The memory had been useful. Sherlock moved swiftly beside her, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close to him. He rubbed her arm exactly where she had done so a few moments ago, trying to keep her warm. He then leaned towards her and planted a gentle kiss on the side of her face.

"When we get home, I'll run your bath and make you a hot dinner," he said, whispering into her ear.

Molly looked up at him and her eyes widened for a moment. Whenever he said or did things like that, there would always be that quick flicker of disbelief in her eyes. Why would Sherlock Holmes waste time on something as trivial as a bath or a meal? And on someone like her? Sherlock never missed that momentary disbelief. He always caught it in her eyes and he was honestly never surprised. His reputation did precede him, and there was a lot he had to make up for.

"Come on, let's go before we both freeze out here." he said, looking earnestly at her.

The brief cynicism was exactly that, brief. Molly relaxed into a smile and a warm flush of delight appeared on her cheeks. Molly stepped out of Sherlock's hold and placed his arm to his side. She then looped her arm through his and the pair began their walk home.

"So, what's on the menu?" she asked, turning to look at him.  
"From what I recall of your leftovers, I believe I can scrape together a decent bit of Shepherd's pie." he answered, smiling smugly.  
"Ooh. Just what I need," she said, leaning her head against his arm.  
"Good." he said, nodding. Her response was a relief.  
"You never get it wrong, do you, Sherlock?" she remarked with a laugh.

He smiled, and turned to her to give her a quick peck on the forehead.

"With you, Molly," he remarked gently, "I hope I never do."


End file.
